


My Father's Left Hand

by SuleikasGhosts13



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Homophobic Language, Serial Killers, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22150525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuleikasGhosts13/pseuds/SuleikasGhosts13
Summary: Little snippets of Martin's parentage.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Kudos: 30





	1. January

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by the poem by David Bottoms.
> 
> "Sometimes my old man’s hand flutters over his knee, flaps  
> in crazy circles, and falls back to his leg.
> 
> Sometimes it leans for an hour on that bony ledge.
> 
> And sometimes when my old man tries to speak, his hand waggles  
> in the air, chasing a word, then perches again
> 
> on the bar of his walker or the arm of a chair.
> 
> Sometimes when evening closes down his window and rain  
> blackens into ice on the sill, it trembles like a sparrow in a storm.
> 
> Then full dark falls, and it trembles less, and less, until it’s still."
> 
> Edit: Prologue's done!
> 
> Now we can get into the real meat of this fic.
> 
> Horace (from "A Most Dangerous Game") made a cameo in this chapter, but now he's going to exit left.
> 
> Next chapter will be out in time for Valentine's Day!

The television blared a bland, neutral jingle. The narrator's voice boomed.

"Tonight on American Direct News: Suspect in the White Mountains serial killings has surrendered after a terrifying two hour standoff with the FBI and local authorities."

Martin leaned back in his desk chair, scratching his chin.

The tv was an older box model, and imagery was grainy from years of prolonged use. He'd wish the hospital would update to a nice flat-screen, but having access to news had pushed his influence to its logical limits.

"We take you to North Conway now with Jim Mallory. Jim?"

"Thank you, Mark. Absolute shock in this New Hampshire community as neighbors learn that in this colonial house behind me, lived a monster."

The scene switched to a montage of the forensic teams collecting evidence, officers questioning witnesses, photographs of the victims, and newspaper clippings.

"Locals know him as one Horace Jackson, but to his victims he's the _Beast of the White Mountains_. His reign of terror began in the early 2000's, when the body of missing college student Cade Spencer was discovered buried in a shallow grave outside Lincoln. He had been shot with arrows and his throat was slit.

"Over the next decade, eight more cadavers were found, mainly around the areas of Whitefield, Gorham and Bethlehem. Five of whom remain unidentified."

"There's probably more out there," Martin yawned, suddenly stretching.

At Mr. David's curious glance, he explained, "He doesn't seem the type to have a significantly _long_ cooling off period. We're simply not seeing the full extent of his escapades."

"After last week's disappearance of Officer Ramirez," the reporter continued, "members of the FBI'S Behavioral Analysis Unit were sent to assist in the investigation. With their aid, cops were able to track down Ramirez's whereabouts and his killer."

The camera panned to the faded cherry-colored Saltbox cottage, bathed in flashing red and blue lights from the police vehicles.

"This afternoon, the authorities surrounded the Jackson property to serve an arrest warrant for the owner. The suspect, however, fired shots at responding officers and barricaded himself within the home."

The reporter appeared on screen again, his winter jacket zipped up to his neck. "Jackson _did_ agree to talks with a negotiator, and just a little over ten minutes ago, turned himself in."

"This Mallory guy is so stiff," Martin mumbled. "My Ainsley perorates better."

The clip rolled. Two agents were leading a handcuffed man out the front door, through unshoveled snow banks. He looked like Al Pacino in _Serpico_ in his plaid shirt and knit cap, only much lankier. Although Martin barely paid any attention to him; his focus was keen on the individual to his left.

_**Malcolm...**_

Martin hadn't seen his son in years. He didn't look good, if he were honest. Heavy bags fell under Malcolm's blue eyes, and his cheeks were hollowed out. His boy also hadn't shave in several nights.

But Malcolm walked with such an air of triumph. A ghost of a smile played on his lips. His hands weren't trembling. Martin couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his child so confident.

With that, a flood of memories enveloped him....


	2. February

Martin knew something was a missed as soon as he heard the front door slam. The house shook violently.

"Malcolm? Honey, is that you?" His wife cease sipping her chamomile and called out to their eight-year-old.

No answer.

"Malcolm?"

"I'll go check on him," Martin stood quickly, placing his own cup on the dining room table.

He heard his son scramble up the staircase and the bang of his bedroom door. Now this was completely out of character; Malcolm always greeted them when he arrived home from school. 

"Malcolm?! _Malcolm_?!"

The carpet cushioned the sound of each step he made.

Malcolm's door was covered in all the trappings of a typical child of the 90s. A _Street Sharks_ poster, a "Caustion: Keep Out" sign, and a bunch of Pokemon and Power Ranger stickers. Martin knocked apprehensively. 

"Malcolm?"

"I'm not here," came Malcolm's curt reply.

"Then you have to be somewhere," Martin tried for a bit of humor. "Oh where has my little boy gone-?"

"Shut _up,_ Dad!"

Anger flashed through Martin like a lightning bolt, but he hastily quashed that down. His boy _worshipped_ him; he'd never shown him any disrespect before now. Something was _very wrong_ here.

"Mal, I'm coming in."

Malcolm's room was in disarray. He had ripped down the St. Valentine's paper decorations they had spent the weekend hanging. His schoolbag'd been tossed to the floor, contents spilling out. Amongst homework assignments and uneaten snacks, Valentines littered the green rug. On each, scribbled in big black letters, was the word _FAG_.

"Malcolm, what's this?" Martin asked, picking one up.

"I _**don't**_ want to talk about it," Malcolm screeched, his face buried in his pillow. "Just go away!"

"Malcolm Andrew, we're _not_ going to ignore this," he chided. His son practically jumped at his middle name, and turned to his father. His face was all red and blotchy.

Martin softened. The good doctor sat on the edge of the bed, lowering his tone. "What happened to you? You can tell me, my boy. You can trust me."

Malcolm wiped his wet cheeks on his sleeve. "Today sucks," he said simply. 

"Indeed it does," Martin obliged.

"That card I spent most of last night working on? That was for a kid in my class." His son suddenly got very nervous. He fiddled with his hands.

"Go on," his father encouraged him.

Malcolm swallowed, "Gavin Stubbs."

"You like boys, Malcolm?" Martin inquired cautiously. He had his suspicions, of course. He just figured he couldn't expect any confirmation so soon.

"And girls," Malcolm added hurriedly. "I like girls too."

"And girls," he repeated.

"You're not mad," Malcolm squeaked, "are you?"

"Why? Should I be?" He glanced at the vandalized cards. Dread crept up on him. He gestured with his hand, "Because of these?"

"Ms. Emily says it isn't normal for boys to like other boys the way they like girls," Malcolm explained sadly. "It isn't natural. I'm unnatural."

"Oh, did she now?" Martin had the sudden urge to pull this teacher apart like a set of his son's Legos.

"She pulled me and Gavin out of class and told us that if she caught us together she was going to call our parents. She made him cry. He's scared of his folks." The little tyke clenched his fists. "When we came back, someone scribbled all over our Valentines.

"Dad, am I in trouble?" Malcolm asked again.

"No, my boy, oh of course not," Martin pulled him into a tight hug, rubbing his back. "You're not in any kind of trouble."

He pulled back to stare in his child's eyes. "And you're not _unnatural_."

"I'm not?"

"No, Malcolm. Your teacher was only being mean." _Maybe removing her larynx would teach her a lesson..._

"Why would she do that?" Bewildered and depressed, Malcolm leaned back into his embrace. "Does she hates me?"

Martin paused, unsure of how to respond. "She hates people with your orientation. She doesn't want you to be like them."

"What's an orientation?"

"They're the people we're attracted to," Martin explained soothingly, chin resting on his son's head. "It's the way I look at your mother. I think she's very beautiful."

He smirked, "But I'll tell you a little secret, okay? Your mother always liked the girls the same way she liked the boys."

"She does?"

"Mmm-hmm. Doesn't mean I love her any less. That's just who she is. That's just who _you_ are."

"And you don't love me any less because of my-err- orientation?" Malcolm asked hopefully.

"Malcolm, I love you. I will _always_ love you," he kissed his boy's forehead. "Nothing you could ever say or do will ever make me stop."

Malcolm was grinning, even as fresh tears trickled down his cheeks. "I love you too, Dad."

Once his kid had settled down and tucked in his bed, the Surgeon marched down to his hobby room with renewed purpose.

_Nobody hurts his Malcolm._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This won't be the last time we see Ms. Emily. Stay tuned.
> 
> You've seen Good Dad Martin, now prepare yourself for Bad Dad Martin.... Coming in the next chapter.


	3. March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update.  
> Work has been difficult. We're now closed for Covid-19, so both March and April's shorts will be posted shortly.
> 
> The criminals and victims listed are real. However, no graphic information is shared.

Martin scratched his beard. He was stuck in a dingy interrogation room, a light shined in his face.

Detective Owen Shannon sat across from the surgeon, boring holes into his skull with the way he stared.

Between them on the table laid a thick, leather-bound photo album.

"Enjoy sightseeing, Dr. Whitly?"

"Of course," Martin replied easily. "Who doesn't enjoy the chance to stretch their legs and behave like a tourist?"

"Interesting choice of 'tourist traps,'" Shannon flipped toward the end of the album, to a picture of toddler Malcolm in his snow suit. He was cheerfully waving in front of a restaurant. "I recognize this spot from my time as a beat cop in Queens. It's the former Elephas Disco."

"Ah, so it is," Martin feigned wonderment.

Shannon pointed a finger at its accompanying photo, Malcolm sticking out his tongue eating snowflakes. "Then if memory serves me right, this private residence is the site of one of the shootings committed by the Son of Sam, David Berkowitz."

"Huh. We were simply visiting a friend who lived in that neighborhood."

"And here," he flipped to a picture of Malcolm taken from below, grinning in his school uniform with the New York Life Building's golden roof shining behind him, "was where famed architect Stanford White was murdered."

"Oh, don't be so morose," Martin said irritably. "I wanted to show Malcolm where the old Madison Square Garden used to stand."

"That's quite a coincidence," nodded Shannon, hand to his chin. "So are these pictures of your son at the crime scenes of Seda, Cottingham, Metesky, etcetera etcetera."

"Are you talking about that Zodiac copycat?" The heart surgeon frowned, "And I'm not familiar with those other names you mentioned."

The detective slammed his fist on the table. "Cut the bullshit, Whitly!" He leafed through until he found the desired pages. "These are murder scenes related to the Surgeon! I worked these locations myself, I'd know them at a glance!"

Shannon prised a Polaroid from its casing and shoved it in Martin's face. Malcolm, grinning a gap teeth smirk, was riding his bike at a riverside park. "Billy Franklin's body was dumped here!"

"That doesn't prove I had anything to do with his death," Martin retorted.

"No, no it doesn't," Shannon took a moment to compose himself. "But it does prove you're a sick fuck-"

The serial killer bit his lip, trying not to snap.

"With the evidence in your basement, plus this proof on hand of your mass murdering peregrinations; we stand a pretty good chance at seeking the death penalty for you, Dr. Martin Whitly."


End file.
